


Mulled Wine

by lferion



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Gen, HobbitAdvent, Wine, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first flagon of mulled wine of the winter is a tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mulled Wine

Before the dragon, there were any number of traditions to be upheld to mark the seasons of the year aboveground and below. One of the more amusing was the inaugural flagon of mulled wine, brought forth at the feast of the first full moon of Winter. There was a special set for the occasion, with flagon, cups, tray and spice-box, decanter and mulling-poker, all exquisitely made of fine steel, chased with gold and mithril. Thror had ceremoniously prepared the wine, measured the spices, heated the poker and then mulled the wine in the hall above the front gate, with as many in attendance as cared to be. Thorin, of course, had been expected to be there from the time he could stand steady on his feet and could reliably hand his grandfather the spice-spoon when required. It was a fond memory for those who had been old enough to remember.

During the years of Exile, wine of any sort was a luxury, and mulling spices even rarer, though in more recent years, the colony in Ered Luin had prospered, and traditional celebrations were possible once more, in a small way.

Now, once again in Erebor, the dragon defeated, but an army marching toward the gate, the Company gathered in the guardroom with the last bottle of wine from the supplies the Lake-Men had given them those short weeks before. Someone had found the Royal Mulling Poker - though the rest of the set was long scattered, buried no doubt in the heap of treasure that filled the treasury and most of the lowermost cellars - and Bombur had saved or scrounged or otherwise obtained a single nutmeg, some fragments of cinnamon, and a tiny number of cloves. No one knew if the moon was full or not, and none were inclined to venture out to check. It hardly mattered. 

Despite mis-matched clothing amended with armor from the armory, and the still-visible marks of the hardships of their journey, the arming-forge re-purposed into cook-fire and the night-hearth their chief source of warmth (just the right size for all of them to sit, or half of them to sleep on the deep benches, and the only closed hearth that still had doors to close), or the random assortment of cups and bowls to drink from, there was a majesty and a magic about Thorin and indeed the whole Company as they gathered. 

Everyone had a part: Bofur grating the nutmeg, Bifur gently powdering the fragile cinnamon sticks, Bilbo grinding the cloves. Balin opened the bottle, then Oin poured it into the stout kettle that Dori had polished to gleaming. Dwalin heated the poker in the fire that Gloin had carefully constructed. Bombur, Nori and Ori tipped in the spices, Fíli and Kíli stirring them in in turn. When Thorin took up the poker, heat shimmering red in the deep-carved lines, it was as a scepter in his hands, and as he plunged it into the wine he was every inch King under the Mountain, their king. 

With a steam and a hiss, the wine grew hot, the rich scent of it tickling their noses, and as each cup was filled and handed around, they were not tattered refugees and adventurers, tinkers and toymakers and warriors preparing for a siege, but Durin's Folk, come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 3 of Hobbit Advent, prompt: Mulled Wine. Thanks go to Morgynleri for looking it over.


End file.
